


The Walking Disaster

by BromeliadLucy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, marvel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-08-10 20:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20141548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BromeliadLucy/pseuds/BromeliadLucy
Summary: What happens when the most beautiful man in the world moves in next to the most disastrous woman?





	1. Chapter 1

Let’s take a quiz.

Are you a) one of those quiet people who keeps themselves to themselves, or b) the kind who opens their mouth to find their whole life spilling out in all its glory, for all the world to see?

Do you a) walk through the world with a sense of purpose, striding through the town as if you own it, or b) stumble through, yesterday’s underwear dropping out of your trouser leg and a cup of coffee always about to spill down your shirt?

Do you a) have the ability to put one foot in front of the other, repeatedly, or b) did you stop at the toddler stage of development and manage to trip over fresh air?

When faced with the person of your dreams, do you a) smile beautifully and draw their attention with your wit/intellect/style, or b) face plant into the nearest bush and reappear with a pigeon perched on your head?

I’m option B. Every time.

But I’ve got news for you other B-ers. It’s not always a bad thing…

I always mean to be cool, calm and collected. I write lists and set alarms extra early so I can get up and do yoga in a patch of Instagram-worthy sunlight, before leaving for work in plenty of time, a bottle of lemon-infused water in one hand, and a deep and meaningful novel in the other. But I lose my lists, and snooze my alarms; I’ve never managed yoga (I only bend when I spot candy I’ve dropped); I survive on caffeine, and I read Buzzfeed on the train, often missing my stop because I’m too busy finding out just what the first initial of my future husband will be, based on my top three doughnut toppings.

It was S by the way.

Today was no exception, although to be fair to myself, the world conspired against me. I actually did leave on time for work today. I was so proud of myself that I walked along, head held high, as I left my apartment and headed down the stairs. I’d have done better if my head was slightly lower, because then I’d have seen the cardboard box just outside the apartment next door. The box that I then tripped over, ending up hanging half over it, feet on one side, head on the other, and backside pointing straight up as I listened to the cheery sound of the contents of my unzipped bag rolling down the stairs ahead of me.

I no longer even bothered to sigh, or to moan, when these kind of things happened to me. It was un-noteworthy these days, so I just flumped myself sideways, rolling over onto the floor so I was lying flat on the grimy hallway to catch my breath.

I only lay there for a second, staring up at a damp patch on the ceiling, when my view was blocked by the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Light brown hair, dangerously blue eyes, and a beard worthy of the gods, all appeared over me. There was a frown line between those beautiful eyes, eyebrows were pulled in with concern, but the overall effect was still like the sudden appearance of an angel, albeit one peering down at humanity with some mild anxiety.

‘Are you OK?’ Ah, voice of an angel too. Deep, golden. Delicious.

I heaved myself up, glad at least that I hadn’t been carrying any drinks today so I wasn’t dripping. I was now eye-level with a broad expense of checked shirt, stretched across what could only be a broad expanse of chest. My eyes continued upwards, to meet the eyes of my concerned angel, and bam, boom, choirs of angels singing, 4th of July fireworks, the full shebang. I’m surprised I didn’t tip straight over again.

I fall over a lot more than average I’m sure, but this was the first time I’d fallen head-over-heels for someone’s face.

‘Are… you OK?’ he asked again. I’d obviously left slightly too long a pause here, and may have been staring a little too much at his face. ‘God, I’m really sorry,’ he continued, ‘I’m just moving in, that was the last box, I was about to bring it in.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, and now it happened, the red flush that usually accompanied my disasters starting creeping its way up my skin. I could feel my chest flush, my neck start to turn lobster, and knew that my face was about to resemble a beetroot. Logically, I was OK with my ineptness, I was used to tripping over, dropping things, saying the wrong things; but my body seemed to feel the shame that my brain denied, and I blushed like a cherry.

‘Nice to meet you, sorry for tripping over your stuff….’ I scuttled off, head down, trying to grab at the detritus that had leapt from my bag. A pen here, a lip balm there, enough scrumpled tissues to house a hamster in luxury. I shoved things into my bag haphazardly as I fled down the stairs, a little too fast, grabbing at coins and my phone (the screen had broken so long ago that I wasn’t worried about any further damage).

‘I’m Steve, nice to meet you,’ my new neighbour called down. I twisted to call back my name, wanting to at least make a good second impression since the first one had been a little botched, but as I turned, my foot caught on a loose roll of candy and went out from under me. I landed hard, on my behind, a giant ‘OOF’ echoing up the stairs.

I looked up, hoping beyond hope that this angel-neighbour would have been inside with his door shut by now. No such luck. His face appeared at the top of the stairs, and I couldn’t decide if that was a look of alarm or a look of amusement that I saw.

‘I’m fine!’ I called again, more merrily than I felt, as I hastily gathered up the last of my belongings (leaving my dignity strewn across the lobby), and rushed outside the building. I wasn’t. I mean, that’s not my name for a start (‘Hi, I’m Steve’, ‘I’m fine’ isn’t how the conversation rules generally go), and I was bruised, red, dusty and late for work. But more importantly, I’d done it again. I’d fallen for someone on the basis of a pretty face, and I’d scuppered my chances from the start.

I’d just have to pull it together for the next time we met. Easy, right?


	2. Chapter 2

You know, I swear I actually did do OK after that. Adulting away like nobody’s business. A completely valid statistical survey (my memory) showed that in the following two weeks, I tripped less, remembered things more, successfully carried liquids, and didn’t contract any odd infections petting stray cats (don’t ask). I’ve got this.

And, get this, that’s all despite the fact I saw Mr Next-Door, the Angel in Apartment 4, Super Steve, Captain Fantastic. Yes, I adulted, successfully, in front of him. Twice.

Please, please, no applause, stop. (Now carry on a bit more).

First time I did it, it was Saturday. I’d got up early, been for a run, and was coming back with a faint dewy glow from the exercise, carrying a kale smoothie.

Fine, fine.

It was Saturday. It was about 3pm, I’d only just got up, I was still wearing Friday’s mascara, and probably Thursday’s too, and both had now become some kind of goth blusher somewhere down my face. I was carrying my groceries and I hadn’t brushed my hair. BUT, but, I don’t see this as a negative. I was the right way up, for a start. Last time I’d seen Steve I’d been upside down over a packing box. This time, I’d cleaned my teeth, I was dressed, and I’d cleverly packed my groceries so the celery and apples were nestling on top, while the alcohol and ice cream hid underneath. Clever, right.

My Dad always says the secret to being an adult, is faking it, and hoping nobody notices, so I count this is as full on grown-uppery.

I was standing outside my apartment, doing that awkward shuffle where you try and balance a grocery bag on one upraised knee, while you rootle around inside your bag for your keys – but hey, at least I had my keys, when the door down the hall opened and there he was again. He looked like he did get up early and drink green stuff, and run. He had muscles in places I never considered before, and this golden glow of health, as if he’d drunk some magic elixir. 

‘Hey, can I give you a hand?’ He picked up the bag from my knee with one arm (you should have seen the biceps bulge. Full on hearteyes emoji here), leaving me free to fish out my keys, after a bit more digging around. I thought I’d better take the opportunity to try out this new thing I’ve heard of – conversation – introducing myself and so on. So I did, stuck my hand out, said my name, shook his hand, smiled. Like a boss. ‘Welcome to the building’ and ‘let me know if you need anything’, all that stuff. Got my door open, took the bag back, thanked him politely, went inside.

Admittedly, as soon as the door was shut, it wasn’t all great. The ice cream, sitting quietly at the bottom of the bag, covered in condensation and ice, had slowly disintegrated the paper bag. So as I stood in my hallway feeling all smug at my adult skills, the bottom of the bag ripped open and everything fell to the floor, with a range of noises from splat as the ice cream hit the floor and exploded, to crash as the hidden bottle of gin followed it, breaking into pieces, to Holy Mother of…! as I swore blind.

But I doubt he heard, right? 

Second time it happened; he was with a friend. I swear, do they make these men in a lab somewhere? He was just as… well-gymmed as Steve, but dark and stubbly with a bit of a bad-boy look. Like he’d ride a motorbike without a helmet, or drink bourbon out of the bottle, or assassinate someone. You know the type.

All I was doing that time, was checking my mailbox in the building lobby. I’d opened the box up and pulled out a bunch of letters, and was sorting through them on the table underneath, before going upstairs. I heard some footsteps clattering down the stairs and glanced over my shoulder, to see these two men come down. I swear, the shoulder width on the two of them, I’m surprised they didn’t get wedged in the doorway.

I gave my sweetest smile to Steve, a little wave over my shoulder, and said ‘Hi Steve, how’re you?’ (too many greetings? Better over-friendly than under, right?). He blinked a few times, and he was doing this weird thing with his eyes, kinda looking down towards the back of my knees then back at my face, turning slightly pink as he did. Allergies maybe? Poor guy.

Anyway, he sort of squawked out a hello, then coughed, as if he was about to say something, but by then I’d picked up my mail, gave them both another wave, and headed upstairs. I heard a kind of scuffling and muffled chatter before the front door shut behind them, as if someone had clamped a hand over someone’s mouth and dragged them away. The acoustics in these old buildings can be so odd.

Funny thing about that day, later on I was just walking past a mirror, and realised my skirt was tucked up into my underwear. I mean, my underwear was clean – I’m not that much of a disaster – but it was my favourite pair, with comic book drawings all over them. Superhero pants, what’s not to like? I gave myself a little grin as I untucked my skirt. Lucky catch that I wasn’t walking around like that when Steve walked past.

So, there you go, two functional adult encounters with the Most Beautiful Man In The World. My crown as World’s Worst Walking Disaster might be slipping, but this is one trophy I’ll be happy to lose.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time I saw Steve, was actually out in the wild. I saw wild, I mean outside the apartment building. I was out for coffee and doing those mental acrobatics to justify spending $5 on a coffee when I could have had it for free at home. Today’s excuse? I was keeping those baristas in employment. I’m all heart, me.

As you can imagine, a coffee shop is fraught with dangers for someone like me. There’s the coffee for a start. Not only is it a liquid and therefore spillable, but it’s also caffeine, and god knows even I’ll accept I don’t really need any pepping up. My mouth would run away with itself under general anaesthetic. I’m asking for closed casket at my own funeral just so my corpse doesn’t accidentally insult my cousin’s dress sense. Then there’s the people. Lots of them, all with legs that might stick out and trip me, conversations for me to get too caught up in that I join in, children who might decide to bite my ankles (don’t ask. It’s a thing) … it’s a wonder I don’t stay inside all the time.

But I was there, with a friend. Yes, even a human fiasco like me can have friends. There’s hope for us all, even Calamity Jane got married. In the movie anyway. So, there I was, with my friend. I don’t know why she’s my friend to be honest. She’s so _together_. She looks like a ballet dancer, all long legs and muscles. The most beautiful red hair you’ve ever seen, and she’s a killer, Natasha – with put downs and sarcasm that is. But for some unknown reason she tolerates me. Perhaps even likes me. Maybe she’s got some debt she’s paying community service for. 

Anyway, as always, I digress. There we were. I was buying us both coffee (carrying _two_ drinks? Why not juggle fire next?!) and had somehow navigated my way to our table and put the drinks down safely when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Ever turned around to see an angel? You should try it.

‘Hi! Steve! Hello!’ (Sophisticated with a side of casual disinterest is what I was going for). His friend was standing behind him, and I could see him appreciating Natasha, quite rightly. Me, I could feel the flush forming because it was only a few minutes ago that I’d been telling Nat all about my new neighbour, Steve, and I could tell from the arch of her eyebrow that she’d worked out who this was, and was going to watch this play out with amusement. With any luck she’d take pity on me and save me from myself, but I doubted it.

‘Hi, I’m Natasha,’ she said, sticking her hand out towards Steve. She obviously didn’t trust me to manage to speak coherently. Steve shook it, then gestured behind him.

‘This is Bucky.’ His friend mock-saluted and I knew Natasha well enough to see her interest rise. ‘Can we join you?’

Oh Lordy.

Steve took a quick look around the coffee shop and spotted a couple of empty seats, dragging them over, and then we were four, around one of those too-small round tables. I was sitting at an uncomfortable angle trying to avoid bumping knees with Steve, who was next to me. Me, Steve, Bucky and Nat, all friends together.

I picked up my coffee and took a big gulp to hide my confusion. You know the thing about coffee though? It’s hot. Really hot. Especially when you take a big mouthful. 

And that’s why I ended up spraying Nat with a mouthful of hot coffee, then turning scarlet as I choked. To be fair to Nat, she’s used to it, and she’s the one who decided to sit in the splash zone, so she didn’t scream, but just rolled her eyes and pulled up a pile of paper napkins that she’d wisely thought to pick up before she sat down, and started mopping herself up. Meanwhile, I tried to get my coughing under control, tone down my redness, regain feeling in my tongue, and get a hold on myself. I’m usually pretty OK with being such a catastrophe, but some days I’d really like to be cool, not make a fool of myself, especially not in front of someone quite so cute.

When I finally looked up, Nat and Bucky had started communing over mopping up some puddles on the table, and I could see her sizing him up. He’d be eating out of her hand soon, it’s like she brainwashes them. I risked a glance at Steve out of the corner of my eye, and he was smiling at me. But oh. OH. Bless him, he didn’t even look like he was laughing at me, just… smiling.

‘Too hot? I swear the coffee in these places is nuclear. ‘S’why I always get iced these days.’ He gestured towards his iced coffee, then tilted it towards me. ‘Want a sip? Cool your mouth down.’ Was ever a man more charming? I challenge you to name one.

I didn’t take a sip. I mean, I wanted to, my mouth _hurt_. But it seemed a little forward when I’d not really managed to speak a sentence to the poor guy. And knowing my luck I’d end up poking his eye out with the straw anyway. 

So we sat there, the four of us, for an hour or so. I drank my coffee, eventually, when it was a bit cooler, and I didn’t spill any more of it. I relaxed a bit and didn’t freak out (externally) when my knee bumped into Steve’s. I found out a bit about him, and about Bucky, and Nat told them about her, and I told them about me, and Nat only had to kick me twice under the table to get me to remember to stop rambling. I couldn’t help it, I was trying to find the right thing to say, that would make me seem less of a disaster; trying to find the right phrase that would make me sound as cool as Nat, only my approach seemed to be to keep on talking in the hope I’d get there. Hadn’t worked yet, but first time’s a charm, right?

Here’s what I found out.   
1\. Steve liked his coffee cold.  
2\. Steve had the most beautiful blue eyes the world has ever seen.  
3\. Steve’s knee felt really warm.  
4\. When he picked up his drink, his biceps bulged.  
Oh, wait, what, you want facts? Whatever.

Turns out they both did really _good people_ jobs. You know the kind that make you rethink your existence? I mean, I’m not a bad person, but Bucky worked with disadvantaged kids in Brooklyn, and Steve was an art teacher, and they probably both rescued kittens from fires and knitted homes for orphaned bunnies out of organic wool. I may be exaggerating, but saying ‘yeah, I do admin for the VA’ just didn’t sound that impressive. Nat was her usual secretive self, and just went with ‘I do the jobs that people need doing and are willing to pay for.’ Makes ‘I’m currently signed up with an agency doing temp work’ sound much cooler.

What else did I find out? They’d known each other since school – it showed, from the way they teased each other. They’d lost touch for a few years – I get the feeling Bucky had made some bad choices, but they glossed over that – and now that Steve had a new job, they were reconnecting. Steve used to be scrawny (I found that hard to believe, but Bucky pulled out his phone and showed us this picture of a teeny Steve before his growth spurt had hit).

Here’s what they would have found out about me.  
I like cats, the colour blue, Thai food, prefer Star Trek to Star Wars, like Marvin Gaye’s Trouble Man album, and can’t shut up. 

Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m remembering. I mean, they stayed there with us for a while, right, and it can’t only have been because Nat is worth staring at for an hour. Maybe? Perhaps? But right now it’s 3am and I’m sitting in the dark and wincing as I replay the conversations in my head. Doesn’t help that my head is throbbing either. I didn’t mention that did I?

See, it wasn’t going so badly. I mean, we were chatting, and if I’m being kind to myself, I’ll be honest and say that I did say some things that made sense, and the conversation flowed, and Steve laughed on occasion and, it could have been worse. So then I needed to go, because I had an appointment, so we did the whole ‘lovely to meet you’, ‘see you around’ thing, and I managed to untangle myself from the chairs and tables pretty easily, and headed for the exit with Nat. I could feel her just waiting for us to get out of eyesight of the windows so she could pin me up against a wall and quiz me about everything, and I was kinda looking forward to doing the same to her; she wasn’t going to get away with that kind of flirting with Bucky without some interrogation.

So I just needed to hold it together for a few more seconds, just pretend not to be a complete farce while I walked out of the door.

You can see where I’m going with this, right? Shame I couldn’t. You see, I tried to do this sophisticated sweet little turn of the head, waver over my shoulder, leave them wanting more as we left. Which would have worked great, if I hadn’t pulled the door a little too hard, turning my head back towards it as I went, and slamming the door right into my own forehead.

Starbucks employees are very generous with their ice cubes when your head is developing a lump the size of a small planet.

And that’s why I’m sitting here, regretting my life choices, and planning to move to another state by morning. Wish me luck.


	4. Chapter 4

I have successfully avoided Steve for nearly two weeks now. According to Nat, I should own up to my failings and sucker punch anyone who dares to laugh at me, but it’s not really my way, so instead I’ve turned on stealth mode. I stand behind my door, squinting through the eyehole to check the coast is clear, then I’m out, down the stairs and outside on my way to work in seconds flat. I haven’t tripped once so far. I collect my post at 2am, and I don’t buy coffee out. I don’t even order pizza to be delivered, in case I open my door at the same time as Steve. I’m cooking instead. Two of my fingers are currently bandaged, and I may have lost part of an eyebrow, but it’s OK, I cut myself bangs to hide it. Then I wore a cap to hide the bangs….

Anyway. The point is, I don’t know why it’s got to me. Well, I do. I’ve lived in this small circle of friends for so long now, and they accept my calamities. They know that for every time I trip over and break something (cup, TV, bone) I’ll pick them up if they’ve got a broken heart. For every time I spill something on myself, I’ll let them spill their secrets on me and I won’t tell (my own, I’m not so good at keeping). For every bit of rambling nonsense I blurt out, there’s a good heart behind it. Ah, maybe I’m talking myself up too much, but what I’m trying to get at is that they accept me for being a bit of a disaster area, and that’s nice. But now there’s these new people in the mix, and… I want them to accept me. No, that’s a lie. I don’t want to be tolerated, and be an amusement that’s accepted. I want them to _like _me. To think I’m cool and beautiful and smart and fun. And I can’t do that with a purple bruise on my forehead, or the inability to pass a field sobriety test when sober (don’t ask. It’s another thing). So I’m _avoiding _Steve. In the hope that – I don’t know. That in the next two weeks I suddenly stop walking like a new-born giraffe? That he gets his memory wiped in some horrific accident and doesn’t remember the sight of me upside down over a box, or walking into a door, or spraying coffee on my far-more-attractive best friend? I don’t know, why are you expecting logic. You’re my internal monologue, you should know better.

Nat’s currently being my spy. She’s great at this. She and Bucky hit it off after the coffee shop meeting (and while they all waited in the ER waiting room for me to be cleared of concussion). Swapped numbers, and they’ve met up twice – once for coffee (without me there, so it was a lot cleaner) and then for dinner and a movie. She came round after the coffee, and before the dinner, to fill me in. They’ve been texting apparently and sometimes she sends me screenshots. It’s all very sweet and sickening and normal. I want sickening and normal. Ugh. While she’s snuggling up to Bucky, she’s also sounding him out about Steve. He’s single apparently, is very sweet and respectful, and a bit of a knight in shining armour. He’s also, according to Bucky, a jerk, reckless, and the world’s expert in waiting too long for love. None of this makes my crush any less soul-destroying. I feel like I’ve had a building dropped on me.

So that’s why it’s Saturday night, and Nat is out with Bucky again, and I’m sitting by my open window, staring at the skyline and indulging in some major self-pity. At least I have company tonight. Not human company, everyone I know is out actually living their lives instead of burying themselves for shame, but the apartment cat has decided to visit. She belongs to the super, but she obviously sees the building as her own, so if the window’s open, she’s up and down the fire escape and sniffing around to see what there is to eat.

I’ve given her some tuna, even though she’s too tubby, just so she’ll sit and I can talk out loud for a change. She’s got tuna, and I’ve got wine. Or I did. The bottle seems to be surprisingly empty, so I can only assume the cat’s helped herself while I wasn’t looking. Only possible explanation.

So here I sit, less than sober, let’s say. Cat is on a cushion next to me purring, and I’m leaning out the window listening to the sounds of the city and blathering on about my failings and my crush. I’m all _why can’t I be normal and cool like Nat? _and _nobody likes me the way they like Nat_ and _he’s so hot and all muscly and has lovely eyes_. You know, eloquent. Anyway, the cat’s obviously had enough of it after the first hour or so, because she gets up and looks at me with disgust, then hops out the window onto the fire escape. She never even said thank you for the wine.

I’m kinda hanging out the window, rubbing my fingers together and doing that ‘pss pss’ thing that people do so cats can ignore them, and she walks away. She walks along the short length of fire escape that separates my window from apartment number four. That separates my window from only the window of Steve flaming Rogers, and then. She. Walks. In.

I swear she looks back at me before she jumps down, and winks, but anyway, she walks into his open window that is about three feet from my open window. The window I’ve been baring my soul through, at an alcohol-enhanced volume.

Oh sweet Jesus, let me die now. I can feel cold sweat trickling down my back, and my spine is tingling as embarrassment runs up and down it. Maybe he left his window open before going out on a date with some beautiful woman. I mean, Bucky said he’s reckless. Leaving your window open in New York is pretty reckless. Maybe he’s eaten something really bad and spent the whole evening in the bathroom. That’d be good, right? Not so much for him, but for me. Maybe he’s secretly deaf and has been doing some amazing lip reading this whole time. Work with me here, make me feel better.

As quietly as I can, I close my window and walk to my bedroom. Then I lie down, pull the duvet right over my head, and scream.

_So here’s the thing. I love the city at night. I know that orange glow from street lights is just light pollution, and the sound of police sirens is probably a bad thing, but it just feels cool. Like I’m living in some movie. So I like to sit by the window on warm nights and soak it in. I love the feeling of breathing in that sun-dusty evening air. I had bad asthma as a kid and there’s still a pleasure in taking a big breath in. Saturday nights are good for me, I’ve relaxed from the previous week’s work, but I don’t have to gear up for next week yet, so it’s the sweet spot where I can be me._

_According to Bucky, I should be out clubbing, drinking, meeting women, but I’ve never been that guy. I’m waiting for the right partner, and I’m just not ready for what Bucky gets up to. Not that he seems to these days. This Nat seems to have got to him. Can’t say I blame him, she seems nice, and she’s pretty, but she’s a bit too perfect. Seems to have a lot of walls in place so you don’t know if you’re seeing the real her. Bucky’s having fun, but I want real… I want someone who’s just themselves, even if that’s not perfect. God knows, I’m not perfect, but I try to be a good man, and I just want someone to make me smile._

_Sheesh listen to me. This is why right now Bucky is out with Nat, and has just sent me a blurry picture in a text that could either be him dancing, or doing something I don’t need to see. And me, I’m sitting here, wrapped in a blanket like I’m 95, and sketching by the window. I’m also quite far down some beer that I forgot I had, and I can’t quite make out the number of bottles on the floor, but it’s more than one, and they’re mostly empty. I don’t get tipsy easy, but these ones must be stronger than normal, because I’m losing track of time, and the world’s a bit blurry and I’m half-asleep when a sound snaps me back to myself. It’s a voice from next door. THE voice from next door. The one I’ve found myself thinking of, and unable to think of an excuse to hear it._

_And then my brain tunes into the words, and I could kick myself._

‘Ugh, Cat, why can’t I be like Natasha, then he’d like me…’_ and ‘_ I’m a walking disaster, nobody wants that, that’s why people want Nat’ _and _‘God those muscles of his kill me. Can you imagine, Cat… hey, where are you going, psss, pssss’.

_Then this cat appears, walks in, knocking over a bottle that slowly trickles beer across the floor, then stands on my leg, looking at me pointedly. That’s when I look down and realise what I’ve been doodling in my sketchbook while half-drunk._

_Her._

_Apartment 3. _

_There’s a picture of her the first time I saw her, lying on the floor, with her hair all spread out like a mermaid. If mermaids lived on land and had big streaks of dust on their faces. Her eyes were all shiny then, then she got this beautiful flush that made me think all kinds of things my Mom wouldn’t approve of._

_Then there’s a picture of her with a bag of groceries in her arms, which made me feel all old-school manly and protective, like I wanted to say ‘_allow me, ma’am’_ and carry things for her. Maybe she’d even hang on my arm and tell me I was a proper gent for that._

_Ahem. There’s a picture of her when her skirt was all caught up, and I swear, I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t work out how to say it without it sounding really inappropriate, so I was just about to call out something when Bucky clamped his hand over my mouth and pulled me outside. Still, this one’s giving me less than gentlemanly thoughts._

_I haven’t sketched the time my knee kept bumping into hers under a table, while she chatted, and I swear I could have stayed there for hours because she just lit up when she was talking. There’s no sketch of when she walked into the door and I ended up half-carrying her to the ER because she said she kept seeing stars, and she was just so warm. _

_Yeah, I’ve got to admit it, this is why I didn’t go out with Bucky, or anyone else. I haven’t seen her in two weeks and I really just wanted to hang around in case I did, because she’s adorable._

_But, here’s the killer. As always, she’s taken with Bucky. I swear it’s been the same since we were kids, even when he set us up on double dates, they were both there for him, and I was this asthmatic hanger-on. She’s next door mooning over wanting to be Nat so she could be with Bucky, and how great he is._

_I need to get some air. The apartment feels too small now, like I’ve suddenly grown two foot in the last five minutes. I shove my feet into some shoes, and grab up my keys._

Lying under a duvet is pretty boring after the first scream. It’s also too hot, so I crawl myself out after a few minutes and come face-to-face with myself in my mirror. Bangs stuck to my forehead with sweat, one eyebrow half gone, a wine-flush in my cheeks, and wine-stained lips. Maybe it was better under the duvet. 

But I want out, for a few minutes. I want to go buy _all _the ice cream that I can, so I can indulge myself fully. I need some air, so I shove my feet into some shoes, and grab up my keys.


	5. Chapter 5

I’m a bit drunk, OK. That’s why it’s happened. I mean, it could have happened to me stone cold sober, but this time at least I have an excuse.

I shove my feet into some shoes yes. Left foot, right shoe; right foot, left shoe. It’s dark too, there’s another extenuating circumstance for you right there. So I’m sat down, I put my shoes on, I pick up my keys from the coffee table, I start walking towards the door, but my feet want to go in opposite directions, then I tread on the toe of one foot with the heel of the other, and fall straight onto the coffee table, smashing it like it was a stunt prop. It’s loud, unexpectedly so. But even as I lie there, surrounded by bits of broken flat-pack, I distinctly hear the sound of Apartment 4’s door shutting, and footsteps walking down the hall.

Lucky escape, right.

There’s a big bit of me, the wine-fuelled, lust-laden, teen-hormone-filled bit of me, that wants to scramble to the door and pull it open, and run after him and accidentally trip and have him catch me in those strong arms, and hold me steady, gaze into my eyes and realise that there I’d been, all the time (well, a few weeks), right in front of his eyes. He’ll kiss me on my nose, and my hair will blow out majestically behind me (except for one bit that will cleverly hide my missing eyebrow) and then we’ll kiss and happily ever after will happen. Yeah, OK, so I’ve thought about this a lot. But then there’s the other, logical, bit of me that realises in this scenario I’ll either miss him completely, or fall and knock him over, breaking his arm painfully, or he’ll catch me, and my hair will blow in my face and stick to my lips weirdly (but revealing my missing eyebrow) and he’ll look kinda weirded out, stand me back up, politely back away and move out, without leaving a forwarding address.

So instead, I lie there, feeling sorry for myself, until I fall asleep.

So now it’s Sunday morning and I feel even sorrier for myself. I wake up in a patch of overly-bright sunlight, hugging a broken table leg. I drag myself up to realise I have wood splinters stuck all over my face. I take a long hard look at myself, pull off my mis-footed shoes, look at my apartment, and sigh.

Long, cold shower. Large, hot coffee. Plain, dry toast. Painkillers. Water. Crack open the window for some cool fresh air. Rethink life. I’m not religious but I offer up a generalised ‘anyone out there’ in the hopes of a little support, just in case. Then I sweep up my furniture, leave it in a garbage bag by the door ready to go downstairs.

Here’s the thing, me. It ain’t going to happen. Life’s not a rom-com, and no meet-cute ever actually happens in real life. The boy next door marries someone else and the girl next door needs to do her laundry. So go do it.

Sunday morning laundry. Has there ever been a greater time to be alive? Super fun right! I collect it all up into a giant bag, and it feels like there’s every item of clothing I’ve ever owned in there. Which is why I’m wearing old pyjama trousers and the scraggiest t-shirt known to man. Dubious stains, badly placed holes, and an advert for some company I’ve never heard of. Yeah, I know, the meet-cute rules say if I’m dressed like this I’ll bump into him, right? But I’ve already told you, those rules don’t apply, so just shut UP brain.

I’m only one floor up, so there’s only two sets of stairs. Down to the lobby, then down to the basement. I’ve got my giant bag trailing behind me, a basket full of washing powder and a book and a cup of coffee juggled under the other arm. The bag slithers behind me, flumping down each step. The coffee sloshes a bit. Here’s the bit where a cute movie girl would slip on the coffee, or accidentally spill her surprisingly beautiful matching underwear all over the boy next door. Luckily my greying undies make it safely downstairs without mishap. I shove it all in the machine, I sit in a chair and drink my coffee and stare at my book for a while, then doze off. Then I shove it all in another machine, doze off some more, then shove it all back in my bag.

Even my own brain is bored at this point, and it’s the one narrating this.

Then I flump it all back upstairs, bumping on each step two flights up, then I get there, and tuck the huge bag awkwardly under my arm as I reach for my keys. My keys. Which I last saw on the coffee table, before I broke it. The coffee table that is in pieces on the other side of my extremely locked door. Fuuuuuuuck. I was doing so well at avoiding the disaster clichés this morning too.

I’m not quite sure how long I stand there, basket in one arm, bag in the other, forehead resting against my door, softly whispering ‘fuck’ to myself. Let’s just say it was only seconds, OK. Allow me that much dignity. But apparently Sunday morning laundry is a thing, so who else do you think decides to do it? There he is folks, it’s Mr Apartment 4, Captain Handsome, the Meet-Cute that never was because we’ve already met and it sure wasn’t cute.

‘Are you… trying to walk through the door?’ He says that as if he actually thinks someone like me might try it. (I have. It doesn’t work. I still have a scar. Don’t ask, it’s a thing). I can’t even be bothered to lift my head up to be honest, so I leave my forehead resting on the door, and just rotate slightly. My hair catches as I turn.

‘Is your eyebrow supposed to look like that?’ I’m so done at this point, that I just smile. This is me, in all my glory. Run while you still can!

‘My keys, right now, are only four inches from my hand. But this door is slightly in the way of me getting them.’ I demonstrate which door I mean by banging on it slightly. With my head. I’m having a bad day, OK.

‘Ah. That explains the _fuck_. Um. What explains the eyebrow?’ He actually looks concerned, as if he’s genuinely asking, but actually, wait. His mouth is twitching slightly, and I can see he’s trying really hard not to laugh, but this is me, OK. I’m not going to be Nat. So he’s never going to like me, so I’m not going to try and hide it any more. The bag slides out from under my arm and splits as it hits the floor, so my laundry slides like a wave across the hall, a shimmering wave of greying and holey sweatpants and sports bras, all mismatched of course. I put the basket down, and the washing powder tips over, and powder starts to pour out into a tiny mountain, just waiting for miniature skiiers to take to its slopes. I. Don’t. Care. What’s the point in even trying?

This has only taken seconds, of course, and he’s still watching me but now he’s actually smiling. Ok, grinning. Woah, here comes a chuckle.

I turn around, rest my back against the door, and slide down it, until I’m sitting down. My feet knock over the powder mountain as I go, then end up resting in a pile of clothes.

‘I singed my eyebrow cooking. So I cut bangs to hide my eyebrow. Then I wore a cap to hide my bangs. But I was leaning out the window yesterday and my cap fell off. So I’m just wearing this brow with pride now.’

‘And the bandages?’ I look down at the greying bandages wrapped around my fingers.

‘Also cooking. The pile of wood inside my door wasn’t the result of cooking though. That’s the result of putting on my shoes. I am multi-talented in the inept department. I’ve won prizes for incompetence, but I lost them somewhere. I got a medal for most hospital appointments as a child but I swallowed it. I have lost my keys so many times that the super buys them in bulk. I am banned from all glassware shops in a three mile radius and when it’s icy, all local ER departments have a special cubicle set aside for me to have my bones set. My name is used in global alert systems to indicate an above ‘red’ level catastrophe. I am, to use the technical term, a freaking disaster.’

I look up to see how my rambling’s gone down, but he’s not there. Or not where I expect him to be anyway. His head is no longer six foot something up in the air, but is about level with mine. He’s cross-legged on the floor, still with that toothy grin on, but he’s using his finger to poke around the washing powder, and he’s drawn a smily face with it. The bozo. Here I am being woeful and he’s cheering me up.

‘Is your window open?’

‘Um, yeah, why?’

‘So’s mine. You could go out my window, go along the fire escape, and let yourself in. Or, I mean, you could live out here now. Either is fine.’

‘You’re suggesting that I, me, this person here, crawls out of an open window above ground level, walks along a rusting fire escape, pulls open another window, and crawls through?’

‘Yeah. It’ll be fun to watch. I’ll film it for YouTube.’

He’s definitely smiling at me now, but you know what, it’s OK. I don’t feel like blushing, I don’t feel like the butt of the joke, I feel like it’s OK to be chaos personified for a change. So, I scoop up my laundry into the remains of the bag, and I go into his apartment. I’m not looking round, because that would be rude, but my peripheral vision is working way overtime taking it all in. There’s a load of art stuff, easels and paints. There’s a big TV and a laptop, and some unwashed mugs. It’s not that tidy, it’s kind of lived in and nice. Over by the window, there’s a sketchbook, the pages ruffled in the breeze, so I can’t see what he’s been drawing.

He slides the window a bit further up, and I stick one leg over the windowsill, and try to pull the other one over. I teeter for a little bit, but make it safely. Then I make the mistake of looking down. I can see all the way down because there seems to be a lot of holes in this fire escape, and the bits that aren’t holes are mostly rust. But I’ve got this, I can do walking (let’s not remember the times I can’t). I keep one hand on the wall, and try and stride purposefully along, but I’m doing these teeny little steps and when the metal lets out a kind of squawk, so do I.

I turn back for a second, and he’s got his head stuck out of the window watching. And yes, he’s filming it, just in case my plunge to the death can earn him a few dollars. I’d make a rude gesture but I’m afraid of moving too much.

It’s not that far, so even at my glacial pace I make it to the window pretty quickly, then I wedge my fingers in the crack of the window and heave it up. I don’t get it very far, but I just want in by then, so I squeeze through, dangling half way for longer than is elegant, with just my backside and legs waving out of the window. I can definitely hear a snort and I really hope this doesn’t get uploaded anywhere.

Then I’m in, my head all red and sweaty from being upside down, and there’s my keys, on the shelf by the door, right where I’d put them for safekeeping while I cleared up my broken table. I grab them up, and I pull the window open, and I make my way back out.

Yes, you heard me.

I squeeze out of my own window, and I edge along the fire escape as it groans even louder, and the whole time Steve is watching me and doing that thing where you laugh so hard you can’t make any noise, so he’s just clutching at his chest and gasping. Thanks for all the help.

When I get to his apartment, he’s blocking half the window, hanging out of it. I edge past him, trying to get my leg over the sill, but there’s not much room so I end up tumbling through, and slowly sliding headfirst across his floor as my legs come into the room. But I made it. I’m here.

‘You know…’ he’s squeaking, as he tries to catch his breath. ‘You could…. Oh god…. You….’ His hands are on his knees and his face is purple. I pull myself to sitting and wonder if I need to do the Heimlich manoeuvre, or CPR, or give him a shot from an epi-pen or something. Finally he manages to heave in enough air and stands up, wiping his eyes.

‘You could just have opened your door.’


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes you just have to own it. Hold your arms up to the universe and say ‘yes this is me. I’m the one who didn’t think to open her door and walk down the hall, but instead teetered along a rusty fire escape then fell face first through the window of my crush. Hi. Nice to meet you.’

It takes a moment to sink in, what he’s said. I gawp down at the keys in my hand, the window, and Steve’s face, as he struggles to catch his breath, then it hits, and I giggle, then I snigger, then I see Steve crack up again and I let out an undignified snort and lose it. It’s not even _that_ funny but there are days when the stars align and something ridiculous becomes the thing that will make you laugh randomly in a library three months later when it pops into your head. This was one of those times.

Eventually of course, we get to the gasping stage, then the hiccupping stage, then the sort of awkward sigh, then we’re both sitting there on the floor. I’d like to say we then start talking, move in together, and have adorable children, but instead I stand up and smile.

‘So, thanks for letting me use your apartment. I won’t say it’s not a regular occurrence, locking myself out, but I promise not to climb through your window more than, say, once a week?’

‘Mi ventana es tu ventana.’ Oh, he speaks Spanish. Nope, that does make him at all 100% sexier, definitely not. Oh Dios mío…

I pick up my bag, and he kindly picks up my basket so I can open my door with my keys, trying to pretend I can’t see him grinning as I do. Once I’m inside my apartment, I sort of give him a wave, and start to shut the door, when he puts his arm out, and stops it.

‘Um, would you want to get a coffee later?’

I blink, completely stupefied. Mr Beautiful is asking the perfect storm of caffeine-tsunamis for a coffee?

‘Never mind, sorry, don’t worry…’ he backs away, cheeks flushed, and I realise I’ve paused too long.

‘No, wait, Steve. Yeah, that’d be nice. Just maybe bring an umbrella, just in case?’

If you saw the way his face lit up, you’d almost believe he really wants to spend time with me. Maybe he just needs me to sign some disclaimer before he uploads the video somewhere. He gives me a kind of thumbs up, says ‘half an hour?’ and disappears back into his apartment.

I am not getting my hopes up. I am _not_. The fact I spend 15 minutes of the next half an hour sorting through my laundry for the right ‘it’s Sunday and I’ve made no effort, but I just look this cute anyway!’ outfit is irrelevant. It turns out I don’t own that anyway. I own work clothes (boring, corporate-y, need ironing) and non-work clothes (comfy, stretchy, probably also need ironing but don’t get it). I pick the least worst, and text Nat. Then I spend another 5 minutes trying to arrange my hair to cover my eyebrow, but in a sexy peekaboo way. What I manage is to look as if I’ve glued my bangs to my eyelid with hair gel. Because I have. Then I text Nat again. Then I spend another five minutes scrubbing my hair with a wash cloth to get the gel out, and then rubbing it with a towel so it does look wet, then combing it and praying. Then I text Nat. The last five minutes is spent putting my shoes on (the right feet), texting Nat, finding my purse (in the fridge), texting Nat, pacing up and down fanning myself so I don’t look red, texting Nat, and then opening the door to Steve’s knock, with my best casual ‘oh I’ve just been reading Dostoevsky for the last 30 minutes, how about you?’ nonchalant look. Nailed it. Then my phone beeps 12 times as Nat replies to all my texts. Too late to check now, I just have to hope that all her advice over the last ten years of friendship has sunk in.

I walk down the stairs with Steve, and try to remember what Nat’s said in the past. There was a lot of ‘be yourself, you’re great’ which is obviously no help. I remember ‘you’re lovely’ and ‘people like you because you’re funny and sweet’ and Jesus, has she never given me ANYthing I could use? Like, how to be her? Because that’s what I need now. I’ll just have to wing it.

We make that awkward conversation about the weather, and laundry and so on, on the walk. I want to say something funny about keys and windows and fire escapes, but I’m channeling Nat, all mysterious and sexy. I try raising one eyebrow in a knowing way, like she does, but then I remember that eyebrow is missing, so the effect is probably a little less than appealing. Then I try raising the other eyebrow, but as it turns out, I can’t get it to go up. Then I realise what I’m actually doing is randomly opening my eyes wide, and wrinkling my nose. Look you try it. Try raising one eyebrow if you can’t. See how you look. Now imagine the look on Steve’s face as he watches this. We haven’t even made it to the coffee shop and already I can see the regret in his eyes.

I try to pretend I’m just about to sneeze, and work on keeping my face very still, then realise I can’t remember what faces do normally. It’s like when you try and think about how much eye contact to make, it all goes wrong. You either stare, unblinking, or else you fixate on someone’s chin and they keep trying to duck their heads to meet your eyes… you know… don’t you? Anyway, by now conversation has died out completely and I can’t remember how faces work. So it’s kind of inevitable when Steve and I reach the coffee shop that he looks at me a bit strangely.

‘Um, are you OK? If you don’t want a coffee, you can just say, I’m just… not sure what your expressions mean…’ I sigh. I need Nat’s advice before I screw this up.

‘No, I do want to be here. I was trying to raise one eyebrow in an intriguing manner, but I couldn’t, so I tried the other, but then I realised I was being weird, and then I forgot what faces were supposed to do…’ I tail off. This is not helping me look normal.

‘Oh like when you forget how much eye contact to make?’

‘YES!’ I feel my shoulders, and my frozen face, relax. ‘Yes, Nat thought I was weird when I said I couldn’t remember, but it’s not just me!’ Steve’s face relaxes too, now he realises I’m not ‘wish I wasn’t here weird’ but just regular weird.

‘Yeah, I once screwed up a job interview because I was so intent on not staring, that I forgot to make any eye contact, and instead spoke entirely to a spot over the interviewer’s shoulder. She kept turning around to look, and I may have convinced her that her office was haunted…’

Oh god, can this man be any more perfect? This kinda breaks the ice, I have to admit. Can it be that Captain Fantastic is… a bit weird?

He takes my coffee order, and joins the line, so I go and grab a table, and use the opportunity to read Nat’s texts.

Me: Help, Steve’s asked me out for coffee after I crawled through his window (don’t ask) and how can I be cool and sexy like you so he falls for me? Go!

Nat: You crawled through his window?

Nat: Just be you! He wouldn’t have asked you for coffee if he didn’t like you

Nat: Just don’t tell him weird medical stories. Save that for date 2

Nat: Because this is date 1. Fact

Nat: Bucky agrees

Nat: I’m with Bucky. He says Steve asking someone for coffee is A BIG DEAL

Nat: Don’t try and be me. You’re great

Nat: Bucky says I’m great

Nat: I have SO much to tell you

Nat: Bucky says I can’t tell you. I’ll kill him first then tell you

Nat: Anyway, gotta go. Stuff to do. By stuff I mean Bucky

Nat: BE YOURSELF. You’re a gorgeous lovely person. Love ya

Fat lot of use that is. I mean, Steve asking me for coffee being a big deal is kinda cute and I can feel my insides go a little smushy, but basically what I get from this is Nat’s too busy canoodling to help out. ‘Be yourself’. Pfft. Thanks a bunch.

A coffee appears on the table, and I look up to see Steve sitting opposite me.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Yeah, Nat. She’s with Bucky?’

_Oh god, please don’t let her ask me loads of questions about Bucky. Let me pretend for an hour that she’s not interested in him, please?_

‘Ah yeah, I got a bunch of texts from him last night extolling her virtues. I told him I’d block his number if he carried on. You known her long?’

Oh god, please don’t let him be another one of those guys who wants to get to know me, to get to know Nat. Let me pretend for an hour that he’s not interested in her, please?

‘Ten years. Since uni.’ I keep it short, I don’t want to be drawn into a conversation about Nat’s favourite things and where she likes to hang out and could I just put in a good word? Apparently some days I walk around with a Nat Signal shining out of me. Ha. Nat Signal. Get it? There’s a bit of a pause in our conversation and for a moment I wonder if I said that out loud.

Steve takes a sip of his iced coffee, and I take a sip of my hot coffee. Carefully. Then lower it down to the table with extreme precision. When the cup is safely down, I give myself a little nod of approval, and look up to see Steve grinning. He mimes giving me a round of applause, and I bow. I feel so… happy.

‘So is there a reason you were trying to raise an eyebrow intriguingly? I’m intrigued.’

‘Ah, well this is where I should come up with something cute and also convincing to say, but to be honest, my brain doesn’t work that fast, and I’ll only come up with something an hour later, which is apparently called l’esprit de l’escalier in French, which means something like coming up with a witty reply half way down the stairs, and anyway, I’ve been talking this whole time to try and give my brain time to come up with something but ‘ve got nothing but the truth, so I’ll go with that, which is that I was trying to be as cool as Nat is, and she does this thing with her eyebrow that makes her look mysterious even when it really just means she wasn’t listening, but apparently my face doesn’t do that. So there’s that.’

Too much? Possibly.

‘Trepverter’

I look blank.

‘Trepverter. Staircase words. Yiddish for the same as that French you said. But… why were you trying to look like Nat?’

‘Ah.’ I take a sip of my coffee again and encourage my brain to run up and down some stairs to come up with a convincing reply. Shuffle around in my chair a bit. ‘Would you believe me if I said I was auditioning for a community theatre role as… Nat.’ He raises his eyebrow sarcastically.

‘Oh great, so you can do it too!’ I point, then contort my face in an attempt to copy it, but my brows are still firmly set. At least I won’t need botox when I’m older since apparently my face doesn’t move.

‘So?’ Damn, I thought he’d forgotten. I sigh.

‘Nat’s so cool. Everyone likes her, she’s all enigmatic and serene. I was just trying to be a bit more like her, so you’d like me.’ Those last three words are said into my coffee cup, quietly, in the hope they’re not noticed. Between the mumbling into cappuccino, and the woosh of the coffee shop, I might get away with it. I risk a look up, over the rim of my cup which is still held up to my face. Steve’s looking puzzled.

‘But I d…’

It’s possible he was going to say ‘I do like you’. It’s not that out there right? I mean, it could have been ‘but I don’t like you’, sure. It could have been ‘but I dance flamenco on Tuesdays’ or ‘but I do fondue’ but he could have been going to say he liked me. But the man sitting at the table behind me took that moment to stand up. He shoved his chair back a little too vigorously, which hit the back of my chair, which knocked me forwards, which threw my cup of coffee – please note, not just the coffee, but the cup - across the table, which hit Steve full force in the nose. His voice stopped and the cup clattered to the table, and coffee dripped slowly down his shirt as a red line swelled across his nose.

And that’s the story of why I’m never drinking coffee again. Because 2 out of 2 times, it’s not ended well for me and Steve. 100% failure rate.

Like I say, Starbucks employees are really nice at giving you ice for your injuries. So we walk back to the apartment, with Steve clutching a bag of ice to his nose and I say sorry in every way I can think of but he’s really quiet and I’ve completely arsed it up again, haven’t I?

_She wants me to like her? Why would she want me to like her if she likes Bucky? Does she want me to put in a good word? Wait, what if… no… she can’t like me? Crap, my nose really hurts…_


	7. Chapter 7

Awkward goodbye. Lots more apologies – I’m a freaking expert at apologising, it goes with the territory of being a disaster. Steve goes into his apartment, I go into mine. Today has been a rollercoaster. Some great highs – laughing, being asked out for coffee – and some swooping lows that leave my stomach churning.

My phone beeps.

Nat: So how was it? Details!

Me: I think he likes you, and I threw a coffee cup at his nose (not because he likes you).

Nat: Oh. Shit. Want me to come round?

Me: No, I’m already ankle deep in wallowing, I need to keep going so I can drown myself in self pity. Wear something good to my funeral?

Nat: Text me if you need me then. I’ll allow you a few days of misery, I’ll be there Weds

So Monday comes, and I leave for work, and Steve’s probably already gone, so I don’t see him, but that evening I decided to adult up, and go round. Knock on the door, and he answers it. There’s a deep purple bruise across his nose, like warpaint, but he gives me a smile and the world feels OK.

‘I just wanted to see how you were, how your nose was.’

‘As you can see,’ he gestures, ‘barely noticeable. I definitely did not get asked questions about it by every kid I saw in school today.’ I wince a bit, guiltily, but he continues. ‘It’s all good though, my reputation has gone way up. I heard one kid in the corridor saying he’d heard that I was in a huge fight over the weekend, and single-handedly took out a whole bunch of people. Art teachers do not usually get that kinda rep, believe me.’

Ugh, he makes things so… right. Damn him. OK, how can I prolong this until he proposes?

‘Great. Ok, well, good. Yup. OK, bye.’ Smoooth.

Tuesday I’m working late, get home and pretty much fall into bed. Wednesday I’m home and Nat’s come over to tell me _all_ about Bucky. All. I can never look him in the eyes again. Thursday I get home and accept that I am now one with my couch, and it has claimed me as its own. Friday I hear Bucky’s voice, and then Steve’s voice as they go out. It’s not like I’m monitoring his movements or anything. I don’t have a spreadsheet…

So it’s Saturday, almost a week later, that I see Steve again. And by ‘see Steve’, I mean _see _Steve. SEE him. Get what I’m getting at? No? Let me explain…

Our apartment building is old, but it’s pretty good. It has a great fire alarm system, great in that it never works, so I can burn my dinner as often as I like and no-one’s the wiser. But Saturday morning, something changed. Two wires met across a crowded circuit board, and things got hot. I don’t know how this stuff works. Long and short of it is, that 4.30am, I’m dragged from my sleep by the sound of screaming in my ear, or that’s what it seems like anyway. I throw myself out of bed and am really glad I sleep in my comfiest sweats (a girl gets cold, OK?), but I grab up a coat and fling open my front door. And there he is.

Apparently, Steve sleeps naked.

He’s standing by his door, with just a towel clutched to hide his dignity (curse you, towel!) and he has a look on his face of utmost fear. He hears my door click and looks around, towel carefully clutched, and gives me such a bashful smile I can’t help but grin. I’m not staring (honest, mom) but hoo-ey, if I wasn’t a good person, I’d be objectifying right now.

‘I panicked! I heard the alarm and panicked! I grabbed just this…’ (for a moment I think he’s going to wave the towel to demonstrate but at the last minute, he thinks again) ‘… then I realised that I needed something else, but my keys are, well. There’s no pockets in this.’

There’s a momentary satisfaction that I’m not the only person to lose their keys, then my nice side kicks in as I realise it’s freezing cold, and I really can’t let the poor guy go outside with just a too-small towel to wrap around himself. The alarm’s still blaring and doors are slamming and people heading downstairs, so I hold out my coat. He reaches for it with one hand, then looks awkward. He needs one hand to hold the towel, and two to put on the coat. I could offer to hold the towel… but I turn my back instead and hear some rustling.

‘Ok, um, thank you’

I turn back and try so super hard not to laugh. He’s managed to tuck the towel mostly around his waist, but I suspect it doesn’t meet at the back. The coat is not designed for someone super sized, so it barely reaches past his elbows and at the front all it does is reveal a delicious slice of abs and fuzz. I’m biting my lip, but I also don’t want us to burn, so I reach out for his hand, to pull him downstairs, and at that moment the alarm cuts out. The silence is deafening but it’s filled by the sound of choirs of angels singing the hallelujah chorus because I am holding Steve’s hand and it’s everything you could imagine. Warm, firm, large. His _hand _I said, jeez.

The super’s voice comes shouting up from downstairs, something about a false alarm, and all clear, and I’m kinda disappointed because although I don’t want to be awake at this time of day, I’m holding Steve’s hand and there’s worse ways to wake up. Even the fact I probably have bed hair and am wearing a sweatshirt with comic characters on is OK, because I’m least I’m dressed. Then Steve lets go and ugh, whyyy.

‘I’d better go catch the super before he goes to bed, for a key.’ He does this sort of shuffle, trying to keep his exposed backside pressed to the wall as he shuffles along towards the stairs, so I take pity on him. I give him my key, tell him I’ll go, and head downstairs, as I hear him letting himself in to my apartment.

Once I’ve got across to the super that no, for a change, it’s not a spare for my apartment that I need (the way he clutches his chest dramatically in pretend-shock is a little unnecessary, I feel), I go back up and knock on my own door. I hear a rustling and then the door opens, and Steve’s standing, wrapped in my duvet, to let me in. He’s taken off my coat, and I can see it hanging on a hook, next to what looks like his towel. Which means that right now, this moment in time, is the moment that Steve Rogers is naked under my duvet. Now, when I dreamt of this moment, he wasn’t standing up and about to walk away, but I’ll take it. I hold out the key, and a hand snakes out from a gap in the duvet and takes it.

‘Thanks, um, just give me a sec…’ he shuffles away awkwardly, duvet swishing behind him like a cape, unlocks the door, and heads in. There’s a moment of silence, then he re-appears, in shorts and a T-shirt, with his keys in one hand and my duvet in another. He hands it back quietly, and my mouth opens. Always dangerous that.

‘I mean, it would have been quite nice to watch you crawling along the fire escape in just a towel, but sure…’

His face turns red and he doesn’t know what to say, and it’s great, because then he laughs, and now it’s half an hour later and we’re drinking coffee on my couch in our pyjamas, with the duvet over both our legs, and honestly, kill me now because I’m done.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst! Sorry :)

Describe to me a perfect Saturday. Sunshine? A picnic in a beautiful park? A basket full of puppies delivered to your door? No. I’ll tell you exactly what a perfect Saturday looks like.

It starts by being woken up much earlier than you’d like. It involves wearing your oldest, roughest clothes, and not caring. It has the rain pouring down outside, and your apartment being a bit too cold. It includes a weird breakfast, because you forgot to do any shopping, so you have dry cereal and M&Ms mixed together in a bowl, eaten with your fingers. It’ll have yawning, laughing, talking. It’ll have Steve.

I can tell you this, because I’ve tried it, and it was perfect. No Saturday should start at 5am but here we are now, and it’s 8am, and we’re sitting on the couch. I’ve got my legs curled up, his are sticking out straight, and I can see the ends of his socks poking out of the duvet. The duvet is over both of us, because the room is chilly, and there’s a bowl of cheerios and candy that we’re both dipping our hands into. I swear, if we put our hands in at the same time and our fingers touch, my heart will stop.

And then it’s 11am, and we’ve both gone and got dressed, and the rain’s stopped and we’re both hungry, so we go out, and get coffee and pastries, and I drop pastry crumbs all down myself, but so does Steve. I accidentally step in a puddle and then my shoe squelches every time I walk, but then Steve sits down on a bench that’s wetter than it looks, and gets a wet patch all over his trousers. Maybe we’re as bad as each other, or maybe I’m not as bad as I thought. Either way, it’s perfect. I ramble on a lot because that’s what I do when I’m happy, I talk. And Steve listens and he laughs and one time he nudges me with his shoulder, and another time our arms bump and honestly, perfect. My heart is singing and my soul is dancing, and that’s why when Nat texts, and says her and Bucky are going to a club that night, of course I reply that Steve and I will too.

By the time the evening comes around though, I’m too anxious to think. Steve and I spend most of the day together, but when he has to go do some work stuff, I get time to think, and that’s never a good idea. I get into my own head, take a look around in there, then back out quickly. I start thinking about all the nonsense I’ve talked, and how I’m covered in crumbs, and my squelching shoe, and how maybe Steve was laughing _at _and not _with_. Why had I let myself be me, when that never worked?

I really _really _like Steve and I really _really_ want him to like me. I want to get it right, I want to look right and act right and be right and basically be someone completely opposite to myself. That’s not a great start to an evening is it? You can just feel in the air it won’t go well. Nobody can be somebody else, but I’m determined to. So I beg Nat’s help and she lends me some clothes so I can dress up like someone I’m not. Normally if I go out clubbing, it’s because I want to dance myself silly, and have fun, and I wear jeans and I don’t care about spilling drinks on myself because I want to just lose myself in the music and not care if anyone stares at my dancing. But tonight I want to be _right_ for what I think Steve must want, so I’m in a skirt, and shoes I can’t really walk in, and make up and I feel so not myself that I want to get straight back into bed the minute I’m ready. Instead, I’m trying to hold all the anxieties in, so I’m talking a bit too brightly and I can feel myself going red and Nat is looking at me as if to say ‘slow it down a bit’ but after the day today I’m on a high and full of panic, and I just want to make sure that I’m sexy and cool and interesting for Steve.

No good ever comes of trying to be someone else. Remember that.

So here we are, in the club. It’s dark and the bass is thumping and nobody can hear themselves think. I’ve been dancing all night, not well, because, well, I can’t dance, but I’m having fun. I start off dancing with Nat, then Bucky joins us, and I’m really hoping Steve will, but he’s sort of hovering around the edge, nodding a bit. Bucky says he rarely dances, he’s too shy, but if he finds the right person and the right song, he will. I know I should give him time, but my heart’s beating too fast, and I’m caught up in the music and the dark, and this panicky rush in my head, so I’m just trying to lose myself on the dance floor. It’s hot, and I’m knocking back drinks to cool down and to deal with the anxiety, and it’s dark, and blurry.

I head over to Steve, and drape myself dramatically on him.

‘Come daaance, come on, don’t be an old man!’ There’s still a faint bruise on his nose, and I reach up and rub my finger across it gently, and he smiles. ‘I promise not to throw things at you!’ There’s a little bit of me that’s saying ‘why not just sit and talk to him?’ but I’m watching Nat and Bucky dancing together and I’m jealous, and a little bit sad.

‘I’m good. I’ll come dance in a bit. Promise. Just let me finish this.’ He waves his drink in the air, and I nod. Then they start playing another song I love.

‘Just one more dance, OK, I’ll just have one more dance then I’ll come talk!’ I shout it as close to his ear as I can, but I have no idea if he hears me anyway, it’s so loud. So I head back out and my head’s spinning and I turn round and I can’t see Steve. He’s gone. And suddenly I feel so deflated, because _of course_he’s gone. Of course he’s not sticking around for a disaster like me. Suddenly I realise I’m hot and sticky and my makeup’s run and my shirt is stuck to me with sweat and I realise what a disaster I am. Or, as some would call it, an easy mark. I’m drunk, and sad, and if that doesn’t say ‘desperate and might be easy’, I don’t know what does. So when someone pays me a little bit of attention, and makes me feel for five minutes a bit better about myself, that bit inside my soul that’s always hated me, clings on to that little bit of attention, and uses it to try and feel better. Which is why five minutes later, I’m dancing with some guy I vaguely know from a friend of a friend, and he’s got his hands on my ass, and his tongue is in my ear and I don’t even think I like it, but at least someone wants me, right? And maybe all I deserve is something I don’t really like.

And it’s at that moment that Steve comes back from the bathroom where he’s been steeling himself to come and dance with me, because maybe I am the right partner after all.

_I’m no dancer. I’m a bit of a shuffler at the best of times, and I feel way too self-conscious for dancing. Maybe it’s because I used to be this skinny little kid that was always being picked on if I tried to do anything cool, but even now I’ve got taller, I feel out of place in my body, like I don’t know where my arms and legs are going. But I’m watching her dance, and she so obviously doesn’t care. Her hair is flying around and her face is red, and she’s spinning in a circle and she looks as if she’s having fun, and it’s entrancing. After the day today, I like her, a lot. So she messes up, and drops things, or breaks things, but so what. That’s just her, right? I like it. So when she comes and drapes herself around me, I’m so close to kissing her, but she says ‘just one dance’, and she tugs me to come dance with her and I say I will, just got to go to the bathroom, because I’ve had way too much Dutch courage tonight. I’m not sure she hears me, but she goes back out there and starts dancing, and I see her staring at Nat and Bucky and I get this warm feeling because I was wrong about her liking him. It’s me . I really think it’s me she likes. _

_Anyway, it takes me a few minutes to squeeze through the crowds to the bathroom, and back out again, and by the time I do, I’m already thinking about how I’m going to spin her around, and pull her into my arms, and people will need to clear a space around us, but we’ll just laugh and get on with it. _

_I can’t spot her at first, because I’m looking for one person on their own, so my eyes move past the couples, but then I realise she’s in one of them. Some guy has his hands all over her, and she’s got her eyes closed and is nuzzling up against him, and I guess I’m wrong. The club suddenly feels too loud and too crowded and the alcohol buzz turns into a headache, and I just want to turn and get out of there._

This just feels all wrong. I don’t like this guy and I don’t like his tongue in my ear, and he’s grabbing at me, and I’m starting to feel scared, like I can’t get away. I open my eyes, and as I do, I see Steve. He’s staring right at me, and then he turns away, and his shoulders are slumped as he pushes through the crowds. I try and walk after him, but creepy guy pulls me back.

‘Hey, where you going? Come on baby, we’re having fun!’

‘I’m not actually. Sorry. I have to go.’ His hand is clamped around my wrist and I can’t break free. I keep pulling, and he keeps grabbing at me, and squeezing me, and I’ve just had it now. So I knee him somewhere delicate.

And then there’s scuffling, and creepy guy is yelling, and the bouncers throw me out, but I can’t see Nat, and it’s late and I just want to cry. I don’t have my bag, or my phone, or my keys, and I have to walk home in the dark.I’m so angry and upset and shaken that I don’t even know what to do, so I just set off, walking fast, because I just want to get home, even if I end up sleeping outside my door. There’s a part of me that’s also hoping I’ll see Steve ahead of me, and somehow I’ll be able to make it all right, but I don’t. I don’t know if he’s walking too fast, or stopped somewhere, or gone somewhere else. Or gone with someone else. 

Eventually I make it home. My shoes are broken and I’m carrying them, which means that my feet are cold and full of little stones. It’s raining again so I’m wet and chilled, but at least when I get to our building, I see that as always, the front door hasn’t shut properly, so at least I can get inside. It’s too late to wake the super now for a spare key, I can’t ring Nat, I can’t knock on Steve’s door, and I have nowhere else to go, so I just sit down on the floor next to my door, pull my knees up to my chest and rest my head on them, and cry.


	9. Chapter 9

I don’t know how long I sit there. I’m drunk, and upset, and time isn’t really making sense right now. But by the time I hear a door slam, and footsteps, I’m so cold I’m shivering and I feel like I might throw up. I’m very sober, but right now I kind of wish I wasn’t.

_After I left the club, I just walked. It was like I was sixteen again, right back to when I’d go on double dates with Bucky and I’d turn around and my ‘date’ would have gone off with someone else. It doesn’t hurt any less, no matter how old you get. It starts to rain, because of course it does, but I just keep walking until I’m completely lost. I flag down a cab, give him my address, and slump into a corner. When I get home, the front door’s open again, so I slam it hard behind me, which at least expresses some of how I’m feeling. Then I head upstairs. And outside Apartment 3, there’s a soaking wet, slumped shape. She lifts up her head, because of course it’s her, and she looks a mess. Mascara down to her chin, eyes red and swollen, hair plastered to her face. Her lips are blue and she’s shivering hard._

‘Steve…’ I try to speak clearly but my throat’s thick with crying, and I’m shivering, and I sort of hiccup out a noise. ‘They threw me out, the club. My bag’s there. My feet.’

_She pulls herself up to standing and she looks so small and pathetic, that even with my heart hurting, I feel for her. I look down at her feet, which are bare. They’re grey with dirt and there are streaks of blood on them. I have no idea why they’ve thrown her out, or what’s going on, but I’m not going to leave her out here to get hypothermia._

‘You’d better come in and get dry,’ he says, opening his door. I wince a bit walking into his apartment, I can feel my feet more now I’ve sobered up. I stand just inside his door, dripping slowly on the floor, while my brain runs around in circles like a hamster in a wheel, trying to think of what I’m supposed to say next. I’ve got nothing. Steve’s disappeared somewhere inside, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him, so I just wait, dripping forlornly. He reappears after a minute.

‘Go have a shower, you’re freezing and your feet need cleaning. I’ve put some stuff in there you can wear after.’

He half-smiles as he says this, and I start to think maybe it’s OK and he didn’t see anything, but it’s just his way. He can’t do mean, he’s a good guy. He turns back to the kitchen, so I hobble through to the bathroom.

Even miserable as I am, you know I take a moment while the shower warms up, to just appreciate being in Steve’s bathroom. It’s clean and tidy, everything laid out with military precision. There’s plenty of thick towels and what looks like sweatpants and a sweatshirt on a stool by the door. I step into the shower and when the hot water hits me I realise just how cold I was. I let the water run over me for a while, then I reach for the shower gel, and it’s only when I pour some onto my hand that I realise it smells like Steve. I couldn’t even have told you he smelt of anything before, but now I smell it, it’s this. This shower gel, plus the smell of goodness, the aroma of wonderful… you get it. I close my eyes and it’s _almost_ like I’m having a shower with Steve. Barring the fact he’s probably sitting in his kitchen hating me right now, of course.

When I’m clean, I get dry and try to drape my wet clothes over his radiator, before I put on the clothes he’s left out. I have to hold the trousers up with one hand to stop them sliding down, which would be fine, except I can barely find my hands inside the sleeves. I feel like a child dressing up.

Deep breath, unlock door. Deep breath, open door. Deep breath, walk down corridor. I’m practically hyperventilating by the time I reach the main room; I’ve been so busy trying to keep myself calm. 

He’s got himself dried off a bit – at least he’d been wearing a jacket and shoes – and changed into something else. His hair is still fluffy and sticking up and all I want is to ruffle it, but he just points me to the couch.

‘Let me see your feet.’

I perch, about as far away from him as possible, and lift my feet up. Haven’t said a word yet since I got inside. He takes hold of one foot, and pushes the floppy trouser leg up a little out of his way. Even miserable, the feeling of his hand wrapped around my ankle sends little tingles all up and down me. He puts that foot down, and picks up the other, frowning slightly, then reaches for a tube on the table. He squeezes some ointment onto my foot, peering down, puts a Band-Aid on top, then puts my foot down.

‘I’ll get you some blankets; you’d better sleep here if you’ve lost your keys.’ And before I can shout _I didn’t lose them_ or _I’m sorry_, he’s gone, coming back with a pile of blankets and a pillow, which he drops by me on the couch, then he says _good night_ and I hear his bedroom door shut. If I wasn’t all cried out, I know what I’d do right now.

I wrap myself like a human burrito in the blankets and burrow my head into the pillows on the couch. I’ve told myself that dramatically I’ll toss and turn all night because of the trauma and suffering that has happened, but I’m warm now after being so cold, and the couch is surprisingly comfortable, and there’s still a lot of alcohol in my system, and it’s about 3am, and… then it’s about 9am and I wake myself up with the sound of an unholy snore, and blink.

It all comes crashing back down on me, at about the same time the hangover does. I moan curse words to myself, and pull the blanket up over my head, but then I hear a clunk and a jingle and reappear. Steve has just put a mug of coffee, and some keys, down on the table next to me.

‘Got them from the super, for your apartment. You look like you need coffee.’ He’s very deliberately not looking at me, but as I emerge from the blankets, arms stretching upwards to free myself as I’m wrapped too tight, I hear an unintentional snort. ‘Actually, you look like you need to be committed.’ I doubt he’s wrong. Last night I wrapped myself in blankets with wet hair, and I know my face always balloons like a puffer fish when I cry, so I probably look even more calamitous than normal. Not that any of it matters any more.

Once I’ve managed to wriggle a hand free, I reach for the coffee and take a mouthful. Caffeine hasn’t tasted so good before.

‘Thank you, for the coffee, and the keys, and letting me stay. Steve, I…’

‘I’ve got to go out. Take your time.’

And with that, he’s gone. I hadn’t got some great apology speech planned out, was very much going to wing it, but I didn’t even get a chance to say sorry, or to explain. Shit.

It’d be weird staying in Steve’s flat without him there, and although I secretly want to nose through all his stuff, even I have my limits. So I fold up the blankets, wash up the mug (I’m being so polite), grab my damp clothes, head to the door… head back and pick up my keys from the coffee table… head to the door, and go home.

Home, where I find Nat pacing up and down (she has keys. ‘In case’ I lose mine. Like I would…). She looks ready to shake me, but when she sees me wearing what are obviously Steve’s clothes, she pauses.

‘What the… where have you BEEN? We got back to the table, and you and Steve were both gone, but your bag was there, and all your stuff, and someone said you’d been kicked out, and I couldn’t get hold of you. Were you with Steve? Did you _sleep _with him? Is that why you’re dressed like that? JESUS I could kill you!’ With that, she launches into a giant hug, squeezing me uncomfortably tightly while quietly screaming in my ear. And when she finally lets go, so do I, and I sob. Full-on snotty, ugly, swollen face, hiccupy blubbing, and I spill it all to her. It’s a lot less coherent the way I tell it, but I think she finally gets the idea, and sums it all up for me.

‘So let me get this straight. I already know you’re crazy about Steve, but then you got yourself all freaked out last night, ended up drunk and panicky. Thought Steve had left, self-pity danced with another guy, Steve saw and left, creepy guy mauled you, you assaulted creepy guy, you got chucked out, Steve took pity on you, you slept on his couch. That it?’

I blubbed a bit more. It all sounded so insignificant when she said it, but she forgot to sprinkle on a coating of low self-esteem so that everything was unsolvable, disastrous, and a sure sign that everything I touch turns to garbage. I may have said this out loud, because I suddenly felt a smack around the back of my head.

‘Go brush your hair. You look crazy. Put on some normal-person sized clothes. You’re not garbage. I’m going to call Bucky.’

I did as I was told. You would too if Nat was being forceful. In my bedroom I was forced to face my own reflection, and I couldn’t help but smile. My hair was stuck up on one side, plastered down on the other. My face was red and swollen, and had attractively broken out in spots due to all the crying and make up. I was a _catch_ I tell you. I threw on some of my own clothes, tried to salvage my hair a little, rubbed some moisturiser on my sore face, cleaned my teeth and went back out.

Nat was still on the phone, so I headed for the kitchen, trying not very hard not to listen. There was still no food – we’d eaten all the cheerios and M&Ms yesterday (‘we’. I wanted more ‘we’), so there was just dry pasta and a jar of something that had lost its label. I didn’t-listen some more.

‘… definitely… I’ll do it from this end, you do that end… I know! The pair of them… yeah OK, you too, see you later.’ She looks up at me as I walk back into the room. ‘So Steve’s moping. Bucky says he won’t answer the phone and he’s indulging in some major self-pity. You should probably go talk to him…’

I throw myself onto the couch. 

‘He went out. I don’t know where, but he obviously hates me, and always will, so there’s no point in anything any more.’ I can feel myself starting to cry again when the back of my head gets slapped once more.

‘You have two options. Option one. You could text him, or call him, or wait for him to get home, and then talk to him, because ever since humanity invented speech it’s been quite useful for ironing out problems. Try it. Option two. You can lie here and feel miserable, and Steve can be wherever he is being miserable, and you can both wallow in it until you shrivel up like prunes from all the tears, and meanwhile Bucky and I will go have fun without you. Your choice.’

I’m lying face down on the couch at this point, probably leaving snot trails on the cushions, but that feels only appropriate.

‘Option 2 sounds good. OW!’ That’s another slap. Then Nat pulls me up by the back of my sweater, almost strangling me. She’s freakishly strong when she’s angry.

‘Get your shit together. Use your words. Text me when you’re an adult.’ She kicks my bag, which she’s obviously collected from the club, and brought back for me, then she leaves. I pick up my bag, dig out my phone to see a ton of missed calls and texts from a worried Nat. I open up the messages and then sit there, trying to work out what to say to Steve, but I get nowhere, and I’m still staring at the screen when I hear footsteps walk past my door, and his front door open.

So I wipe my eyes, even though I know they’re going to be red and swollen, and I pick up my keys carefully, and I walk out my door, and turn right, and walk a few steps and then I’m outside apartment 4. And for all I know he’ll shut the door in my face, but I’m going to try. I’m going to do it. I’m going to do what maybe I should have done long ago, with myself, and my friends, and my exes. I’m going to be truthful, and honest, and put myself out there. If I hadn’t started off with the assumption that nobody could like me, that I was just the butt of a thousand jokes, and nothing compared to Nat, just maybe I wouldn’t be where I am now, but I never do. Maybe sometimes I really should listen to Nat.

I’m really scared that it’s not going to be enough, because I’ve barely known Steve a few weeks and there’s no reason he should even care about what I have to say. I’m just his neighbour, right? But yesterday this building was the scene of the best Saturday ever, and now it seems to be the setting for the worst Sunday of my life. I’m the victim of my own disasters, and this time it feels more painful than the broken bones, more humiliating than the trips and slips. This time I feel like I’ve taken something I really really liked, and I’ve dropped it and broken it into a thousand pieces, and I’m worried I’m never going to find them all and piece it back together.

I know, I know, I’m being melodramatic. I danced with another guy when I had my eye on Steve, that’s all. But my head’s hurting and my feet are sore, and I’m tired, and I’m also coming up with a million and one excuses why I don’t have to knock and _talk_. Ugh, talking. Like an adult. Bad concept.

I knock. There’s a long pause, then I hear footsteps, and the eyehole darkens for a minute. Then the door opens. He looks at me, waits.

‘Hi,’ I start, and my voice is a bit choked up with embarrassment. I could really be setting myself up for a fall here, and I’ve had enough of those. ‘So, you’ve seen me at my worst. I’ve fallen over, and dropped things, and thrown cups at you, but those were all kinda standard for me. But last night I really dropped the ball, and I’ve come to say sorry. And explain.’

I leave a long pause, hoping that he’ll take pity on me perhaps, and I’m just about to give up and accept that I no longer am friends with the Boy Next Door, when my stomach, which hasn’t eaten since last night, lets out the noisiest and longest rumble you’ve ever heard. I’m pretty sure that earthquakes alarms start ringing two states over. It just doesn’t stop. I’m standing there, he’s standing there, we’re not breaking eye contact and we’re both just listening.

He breaks first. My face is now scarlet, and as the sound dies away, the corner of his mouth twitches once, twice, then he lets it go, and clutches at his chest and just laughs and honestly, it’s such a relief. He opens the door wider, silently inviting me in while he pulls himself together.

‘Do you wanna talk over breakfast? I can’t offer cheerios and candy, but I have pastries. That’s where I went. I was kinda secretly hoping you’d still be here when I got back, but I know I was being arsey, and I don’t actually have any right to. Sorry.’

Wait. What? He’s apologising? _He_ is _apologising_? This communication thing is really confusing. I’m just standing there, looking a bit dumb, and so he makes a sweeping gesture, still trying to invite me in like I’m a really reluctant vampire. I step in, and try not to think about biting his neck. He heads into the kitchen and I hear rustling, cupboards opening, before he reappears with two mugs of coffee and a box of pastries, which he puts down on the coffee table.

‘Sit?’ I perch myself on the couch where I’d slept the night before and procrastinate by picking up a coffee mug, and staring into it as if I’m seeing the future. Worryingly the future looks very dark, but that may be because I drink my coffee black. I pick up a pastry and take a bite instead.

‘OK. So. Well. Here’s the thing. You see… What it is, is…’ I look up, and he’s waiting expectantly, as if I’m going to say something intelligible. Ha, sucker! Not from these lips! I put the cup back down, straighten my back, take a deep breath in.

‘OK, so I’m a disaster. I’m always a disaster, and I’m convinced that because I screw up so much, that no one could ever like me, because well,’ I gesture towards myself, taking in the messy hair, scruffy clothes, red skin, pastry crumbs, ‘so last night, I thought you’d left, and I assumed it was because I was a hot sweaty mess who throws cups at your face. So then because I was kinda drunk and stupid, I tried to make myself feel better by pretending _someone _liked me, even if it couldn’t be the person I wanted. Only he was a creep. And I kneed him in the balls.’

I’m staring at the bruise on his nose the whole time I speak, because it’s safer than making eye contact, but it means I have no idea how my little speech has gone down, and it also means I’m now slightly cross-eyed from focussing on one point. Steve lets out a little cough, and I let my eyes flick to his, then decide to focus on his chin instead. He’s not shaved today and there’s this adorable stubble, that is making me just want to reach out and stroke his chin, but I suspect that might not be the most appropriate thing to do right now.

‘Ok. So. First off, can you please make eye contact with me? I know you’re avoiding my eyes but my chin is getting paranoid.’ Ugh, I can’t help smiling at that, so I meet his eyes, then quickly busy myself picking up my coffee again and looking into that.

‘I can’t. Because I feel too awkward and also now I can’t remember how much to look and how much to look away.’ I mumble this into my coffee, but I know he hears, and remembers our previous conversation.

‘Look deep into my eyes. Gaze into my eyes forever. Get lost in my eyes.’ What the…? I look back at his face, and he’s grinning. ‘Made you look!’

How is he being so… OK? I came around here thinking I’d have to prostrate myself and beg for forgiveness, and he’s… OK. Is this how normal people behave? Weird.

‘So now you’re looking at me. You got thrown out for kneeing a creeper? I’m impressed. Good for you. I mean, sorry you got thrown out and all, but I’d have liked to see that.’ I can feel myself starting to smile, and it’s such a relief, but I’m sure I don’t deserve to get away with being such an arse, so I look down again, and eat more of my pastry. Then I notice the mess I’ve made, how many crumbs are all over my trouser leg, so I start trying to brush them all into a pile. I’ve got them pretty much sorted, when his hand reaches over, brushes them all onto the floor with a sweep, then holds onto mine. Oh lordy.

‘Can you listen, for a second, instead of avoiding me?’ I give a small nod, even while I will my hand not to get all sweaty. ‘Yeah, it hurt my feelings when I saw you dancing with that guy, although it sounds like you didn’t enjoy it much either. But you don’t owe my feelings anything. I thought we were getting on, and I let myself get hopeful, but maybe I misread it. And then I was drunk so I sulked and stormed off, because I’m an idiot. But no harm done. I’m hungover and need to watch Netflix with a good neighbour, if you know any?’

Wow. Nat said that talking worked, and it really does. Someone should copyright this approach. _Talking helps reduce misunderstandings. _Who knew. Except…

‘You didn’t misread it.’ I’m going to do it, I’m going to meet his eyes, talk like an adult, and make Nat proud. ‘We were getting on, and I do really like you, and I’m sorry I screwed it up. I tripped over my own issues and, yeah. Sorry. But I do like you. A lot.’ 

He cocks his head on one side, then very slowly, giving me time to change my mind, leans over. He stops when his face is almost touching mine, and his eyes are crazily blue, almost matching the bruise on his nose. I think he’s going to kiss me. I _know _he’s going to kiss me. I can feel my eyes drifting shut in anticipation. His voice, when he speaks, is so soft that I feel it like a breeze on my cheek.

‘You have pastry crumbs in your eyebrow.’

My eyes fly open, and he’s smiling at me with the wickedest grin. I let out a shriek, and give him a huge shove away from me, but he grabs onto my arms as he topples. His leg flies out as he tries to balance, banging into the table, and his coffee mug tips, then rolls onto its side, coffee pouring down onto the carpet just as we fall half off the couch, with me lying on top of him. His arms wrap around me and it’s so unbelievably warm and comfortable.

‘I’ve decided the safest thing for everyone, when you’re around, is to just hold on tight and not let you go.’ He wriggles slightly, so we end up completely on the floor, but true to his word, he keeps a grip on me. ‘Can’t fall over if I’m holding you, right?’

And then we do kiss. I don’t know if he kisses me, or I kiss him, but it happens. We don’t bang noses and our teeth don’t clash and the roof doesn’t cave in. His lips are as soft and warm as I’d imagined, and his arms stay wrapped around me, so I’m not going anywhere, and it all feels so completely right, that I don’t know how I could ever have imagined otherwise. I’m falling for him, hard, but for once, I’m happy to fall.


End file.
